


The Lost One

by sasha_b



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Magic, Post-Season/Series 01, Self-Acceptance, possible series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: The monk takes tremulous steps, and the tribes of fae search for Nimue.
Relationships: Pym & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), The weeping monk & Pym
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	The Lost One

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for all of season one.

He hates the heat. He hates fire. He hates sweating and lugging the heavy sword with him wherever they go.

My, how things have changed.

The line of people – a mix of fae, Vikings, and man bloods – is long but he’s seen longer. The beach is behind them now; he’s heard a few speak of trying to return to the caves, but he knows what happened to that place.

He did it.

At night when they camp and the folk start up their cooking fires, he finds himself having to grip the pommel of the huge sword in order to hide the shaking of his hands. Odd. That’s new, and he’s never hated much before, except –

He’s never felt much before, truth be told. Save pain and the righteous burn of the flail and the slap of leather on his own skin. And the pride at what he’d done for the Paladins.

And he has to stride quickly to the thicker trees, slipping through the forest as he shakes harder and his stomach twists at his past and he doesn’t know if it _is_ his past, really. It might be who he is, and there’s not much he can do about it.

“What are you doing out here?”

The healer. Or really, just the redhead, as Percival has told him about whom the girl really is. She does seem to know a bit, though, and surprisingly enough, he’ll take any help he can get. He finds he’s not quite ready to leave this earth, just yet. He wouldn’t have freed the boy, otherwise.

And yet.

“Nothing,” he responds. _Trying not to vomit. Thinking about why I loathe heat and flame_ _now_.

She snorts and rests hands on her skinny hips. “Not a good idea to disappear. Arthur and the council will think you’re trying to leave. Or you might get hurt again,” she frowns, “and Squirrel would never forgive me if that happened.” She points at a rotting, fallen log. ‘Sit.”

For some reason, he obeys easily. Taking weight off his feet forces a sigh to his lips, and she sits next to him and frowns more deeply. “Does it hurt still?”

He laughs, and it’s rusty and most definitely painful. The night is full upon them, and he can still hear the crackling of fires and the smell of roasting meat beginning. His stomach growls, but the feel in his mouth is one of sickness and shame and he rubs his jaw with a dirty hand and one sore from clenching his pommel.

She rolls her eyes but begins to check him over cursorily, and he lets her. She shoves his cowl back, the robes cleaned and repaired now, but his leather bracers and most of his war gear is stowed back with Percival’s things. She turns his face back and forth and when he doesn’t hiss from the pain of his head wounds, she nods and stands. “You’re fine. Getting there.”

He’d been able to abandon the crutch they’d given him the first few weeks after, and his shoulder is only somewhat sore now. But he doesn’t feel _right_ , doesn’t feel as he has for many years now, and that’s something he’s not sure how to deal with. The air is crisp around them; he knows the winter will be coming, but he doesn’t care about that either. Too many things have changed, and he can’t – he won’t –

“Pym!”

Someone shouts the healer girl’s name, and she stands and grasps his chin in her hand. He meets her gaze, not knowing that his birthmarks show brightly to her in the gloom and glow of fire, and she narrows her gaze. “Don’t leave,” she admonishes. “If you waste the time I spent making sure you lived, I’ll chase you down and kill you myself. Monk,” she adds. She’s only called him by his name once, and that he might have made up in a fever induced dream.

He nods and she’s gone back to the camp, one of her people snatching at her and he can hear the bit of words they’re saying _come on, dinner’s ready, don’t waste your time_ and she doesn’t look back at him.

He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky and smells the food smells and his hands shake again, and he draws the sword and holds it, his right fingers cut with the strength of the blade.

*

He’s walking his horse beside Percival the next afternoon when the group comes upon a lake. Some of the fae folk whoop and stop and run toward it, before Arthur or any of the council can tell them to stop and _make sure it’s safe!_

The road is well kept. He knows they’re getting close to Pendragon keep; that in and of itself is dangerous, as he’s not sure Arthur or any of the others have had a chance to really discuss what they’re going to do. They’d been hoping to find Nimue first, and of course that hasn’t happened. He shoves back his cowl, his hair clubbed at his neck and tonsure now fully grown in (although he can feel the cross scar, which he deserves to) the sun hidden by the trees they’ve been riding through. He takes a step and then another and another and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s shoved through the crowd and put himself first at the lake, staring at its glassy, green surface.

“Out of the way, traitor,” someone says, and pushes at him. He feels to draw his sword by habit, but he doesn’t; his gaze on the person that’s tried to get him to move is enough and the man shrinks back, even as he turns to the water as Arthur and the Spear arrive next to him.

The wind picks up and prickles at the back of his neck. He wishes he hadn’t knocked his cowl off. He wishes he wasn’t wearing his robes, and he wishes to God and by His grace that he could feel anything besides what he’s used to feeling unless he’s done what the Father asked him to do.

But that God doesn’t speak to him anymore, if He ever did, and the monk Lancelot decides that’s probably all right. He shakes his head, oddly worried and distracted by this place.

“What are you doing?” Arthur hisses at him. “You make a move on that sword and I’ll open your throat.” He puts out a hand as though he’s trying to hold the monk’s sword hand still, but the Spear, the woman Guinevere, grabs Arthur and puts herself between the two. The monk can see Pym and Percival arrive, both out of breath as if they’d been running.

The sun sparkles off the lake and the people are restless behind him; they want to jump in and cool off, despite the coming of cold weather, as hiking all day is hot work. But the monk doesn’t move, save to shake off the Viking woman’s grip and step closer to the lake, shimmering now, placidly calm.

“We have time to take a break,” Arthur spits. The monk knows this to be true because he knows the council doesn’t have a plan, but he doesn’t say that.

He closes his eyes and inhales, and then kneels and puts his hands at the water’s edge.

Arthur stands directly behind him. He can feel the other man seething, but the woman still holds him, and they leave the monk be. After a moment, Percival is kneeling next to him, Pym’s muddy boots visible in his line of sight.

“Move,” the monk says. Percival snorts, but he is summarily lifted off his feet by the monk and they bowl over backward, the monk’s hand shooting out to grab Pym and drag her with them. “Move!” he shouts to the others, his eyes lighting with panic and his breath is heavy, his head suddenly aching.

Guinevere doesn’t hesitate, and pulls Arthur away even as she repeats the monk’s shout. Fae pause, but then scatter as the ground begins to shake, the ripples on the lake not pleasant any more, changing the color of the water to dark and murky, the sun seeming to hide behind clouds.

What comes out of the water is something Lancelot (the monk) has only seen in dreams. He really had hoped it would stay that way, but.

Fae scatter, screaming at the sight of the horned thing that’s dripping lake water and howling because it’s been denied its lunch. The wind is tearing through the trees now, and the monk hooks Percival’s hand to his belt, and then stoops and swoops Pym up in a grasp, throwing her over his shoulder.

He runs after Arthur and Guinevere, his cloak flying behind him and his birthmarks blazing red hot on his face, from the encounter with the water dragon or from fear, he’s not sure.

*

They’ve camped for the night about three leagues from Pendragon’s castle. He can hear the council arguing; about what to do without Nimue’s strength, and about what to do about _him_ and what he’d done for them.

He closes his eyes, his face still slightly burned as though the marks under his eyes are fresh iron damage from Brother Salt’s _God’s Fingers_.

He’s never seen another like him, no one else marked like he is, and he wonders if that’s yet another punishment for all he’s done. Fire crackles behind him, and he jumps, and then squeezes at his sword, anger rising at himself, at everything. His back aches and where he’d most recently opened the skin – he can feel the scars, seeping phantom blood even though they’ve been closed for months now.

The Viking Woman sits on the log he’s occupying next to him, and his eyes remain closed. He can sense her gaze, although not like he can sense most of the council, or Percival, or Pym. Or the Witch – Nimue. He’s not sensed her at all.

“They want you up front tomorrow. So you can see if you can find her.”

“She’s gone,” he bites off. “I could feel her easily before. Nothing now. Not for months. Not since that last day.”

“Nevertheless,” she says, and he opens his eyes, looking at her through the edge of his cowl, which he’s pulled back up again. He’s hot and then cold, and he hates it. “You don’t really have a choice, monk.”

The jewelry at the bridge of her nose sparkles in the gloom, and she cants her head. “You’re an odd one. On my ship, you would have been a king.”

His lips split from dryness as he grins, a rictus, and the unfamiliar laugh he’s been experiencing rolls up from his twisted stomach to echo out of his mouth.

“You would have been dead, then.”

Her smile is as terrifying as his.

She stands and looks down at him. “Here come your fans,” she teases. “I’d suggest being at the council tent first thing in the morning. Lancelot.”

He opens his mouth to tell her _no_ , but she’s gone and Pym and Percival are there, sitting on either side of him. Pym lifts his cloak and moves it so it’s lying over his lap and not on the log where she’s sat down. Percival hands him a pasty with meat in it, and promptly slips down to sit on the ground, leaning his back against the monk’s booted leg, shutting his eyes.

He holds the food like he doesn’t know what to do with it until Pym nudges his arm gently. “You eat it,” she says, and makes biting motions. He snorts without meaning to and lowers his hood, taking a bite of the hot roll and accepting the skin of watered wine she shares with him.

“You’re an odd one.”

He smiles again, the grease from the pasty making his lips shine. “So she said.”

“Who, the Spear? She’s one to talk!” Pym laughs, her hair a frizzled mess at her temples, her boots still muddy and her dress wrinkled and dirty. “Strangest woman ever. But Arthur might find some use for her – or actually, she for him, now that I really think about it.” She rests her chin in her hand as he continues to eat. She looks at him, tilting her head to examine the side of his face.

“That was amazing, what you did today.”

He swallows roughly, the food he’s been eating a lump in his guts. “No,” he answers. “It was just there. I didn’t do anything.” He’s begun to sweat. _That’s what I do. I find magical things, and I help to kill them_. He puts the remainder of the pasty down, and stands stiffly, pulling the cowl back up to his head. Pym’s hand stays his motion, and the hood pools at his neck.

“You did, and again it’s a reason they should trust you. You are one of us. All fae are your family – you need us. Especially you.”

He can’t bear the kindness in her large eyes, and he turns from her, choking and trying to breathe. “I don’t,” he bites off.

She reaches for him, but he’s gone, sprinting deeper into the woods, the fires from the camp shimmering at his back as she stares after him.

*

The next morning he rolls over on the cot they’d given him, and he starts and reaches for his sword when Pym’s face swims into view.

He’s clad in breeches and blanket only and barely registers the gasp from Pym when he sits and reaches for his tunic, pulling it quickly over his head to cover the lash scars on his back. She's seen them before, but not in many weeks.

He fumbles for his overtunic and belt, but pauses when her small hand touches his knee.

“I’ve brought you something,” she says quietly, mindful of the sleeping Squirrel/Percival behind them. She presses a wrapped object into his hands. “Mind you, I’ll want it back. But I think you need the help more than I do just now.” She stands and wipes hands down her skirts, fresh and clean compared to the previous day. Her hair is more tightly bound and she wears a bag at her side; a healer’s unguents peaking from the top, the smell of herbs reaching his nostrils and making him relax, unbidden.

“I know you’ve lead a … rough life,” she continues. “I shouldn’t trust you. But I do, as Squirrel does, and I think you need friends. The fae are your family,” she repeats herself from the night before. “But not your friends. Not yet.”

She turns as Squirrel is stirring and her eyes burn into him. “We are,” she nods at the boy. “Please. Don’t make us sorry.”

She slips out of the tent, and Percival stumbles over to him, sitting heavily on the cot. “Wotcha,” he says sleepily. He scrubs at his hair and pulls a face when the monk smiles at him. “What?”

“I haven’t heard that in a long time,” the monk Lancelot says. _My brother said it_.

_I think_.

“Get up, before all the good breakfast is gone.” The little boy is dressed in a flash and out of the tent before the monk is standing and pulling on his boots. He fingers the wrapped piece of metal in his hands and stows it in his pockets, sliding his overtunic over his head, tying his hair back messily, and then reaches for his cloak and cowl.

He feels the piece of jewelry Pym’s handed him in his pocket, heavy. He doesn’t need another god to help him, but the gesture – he understands it, and he’s not going to make her sorry for loaning it to him or trusting him.

“Monk!”

The voice of the Spear floats through his door. “You’d best come,” she adds, and he straps his belt and sword around his waist. He picks up the cloak again, and again hesitates. He can hear horses and feet and can smell people cooking and he hears his name a few times – his real name – as folk discuss what had happened the day before. He holds the cloak, lifting it a few times, then setting it on the cot.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste the blood. Blood? Now that, he’s used to.

But things can change.

He exits the tent, leaving the cloak behind, and ignores the stares that come when he appears at the side of the Spear, his face and his birthmarks on view for everyone to see. Percival is there, as well, waiting for him, and they follow the Viking to the council tent, and he feels his mouth curl upward when the boy elbows him and whispers _she likes you_. He’s not used to all this smiling. He’s not sure he likes it.

The council is there, and he feels the weight of Pym’s gift at his side, and he waits to hear what they’ll say, although he knows what it will be, after what happened the day before.

Pendragon castle is close. And without Nimue, he’s not sure what they’ll do. He’s no Fae King, and he has no desire to be – God, he can barely manage to accept what he is, and he’s not sure of that. Other than clanless, now.

But the boy nudges him again when the council asks – no, tells – him to stay at the front and to use his _natural ability_ to help them find any trace of the girl, their Queen. Arthur watches his every move, and he can feel the other man behind him when he and the boy exit the tent. Not like the man is a fae, but he can feel the gaze and the other man’s emotions. He misses the girl. Like he’s something broken.

That, Lancelot understands.

The sun rises and they are packed and he’s on his horse at the front of the line of mish-mashed fae and he can’t unsee where he is or what he’s doing and he shuts his eyes for a brief moment, and the heat of the sun, despite the winter coming, is unpleasant and he feels the burn of the lash and

“Come on,” the boy says, riding double in front of him. “We’re the heads of this dragon! Now let’s go!”

The sword is heavy at his side, but the boy – and he catches sight of Pym, riding on one of the wagons with children. She looks up at him and the smile on her face – it’s tremulous, and he knows why, but he nods back, which is as much as he can do in the moment.

His uncovered head and face feels horribly strange, but they ride, and Lancelot lets the boy talk and lull him into a false sense of _found_.

~

**Author's Note:**

> This could be considered a continuation of The Ill Made Monk, but YMMV. I may continue to write these pieces like this. 
> 
> I added the dragon/water monster as there are definitely magic creatures in this 'verse, no matter us not seeing them yet. I also use a bit of anachronistic language in this, as the show does as well.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos/reads/comments. It is much appreciated! I adore character study and have had so much fun with the monk and his world.


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